Page 102 of Lush

“Don’t,” I said, sharper than I meant. “Don’t act like it’s nothing.”

Her eyes met mine, wide and uncertain. “Paris was smelly, dirty, rats everywhere, but there’s a raw beauty there too.”

I could see her in each shade of blue, green, and gold.

“This…this is how you felt, isn’t it?” I gestured at the canvas. “This is you.”

Her breath hitched, and for a second, I thought she might deny it. Shut me out. But she didn’t.

“It’s easier to paint it,” she said softly. “Than to say it.”

She lifted another canvas. This one was simple: a woman hunched over, her back arched, with a small furry dog trailing behind her on a leash.

“Every day I saw this woman buy a baguette and an espressofrom the café near my apartment.” Laurene ran her fingers over the painting. “She was always in such a rush but couldn’t move than two miles an hour, and the dog probably moved at half of that. I got brave enough to say hello one day.”

“What happened?”

She laughed. “Cursed me out in French. Called me out for being American.”

“Damn.” I grinned. “Did she also steal your lunch money?”

“Practically.” She nodded. “Next day she gave me her baguette because I looked ‘too skinny to live.’”

“She insulted youandfed you?”

“It became our thing after that. She’d insult me, then slide me an extra croissant. She actually became one of the few friends I had.” Her smile softened. “I admired her, in a way. She didn’t care about being liked. She justwas.”

But just as she moved to pass one painting, a quick flash of movement caught my eye.

“Wait. Go back,” I said, already stepping closer.

She froze, then slowly lifted the canvas.

It was a portrait ofme.

The brushstrokes were raw, intense. My eyes in the painting were sharp, focused, like I was looking at you.

“Why didn’t you finish it?”

“I—” Her gaze dropped to the floor. “I didn’t know how to finish it. Or if I should.”

“Why?”

“Every time I tried to complete it, I kept thinking about us. It was like finishing it would mean we were really done. That everything was over.”

“And now? Do you still think about us?”

Her eyes met mine, a storm of emotions swirling within them. “Every day. But I’m scared. Scared that finishing this painting means accepting that we’re over. Or maybe now that we’re not.”

“Finish it.”

Her brows furrowed, but she turned back to the canvas and grabbed her palette and brush. I stepped back, and she shook her head. “Sit there, near the light.”

I moved to the chair she’d pointed to.

“Take off your shirt.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Is that necessary?”

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